Complicit in Darkness
by Cornerofmadness
Summary: Malcolm feels guilty for needing to visit his father but he can't quite stop himself.


**Title** \- Complicit in Darkness

**Timeline/Spoilers** \- Assume spoilers up to the most recent episode. However, it is set during Malcolm's Harvard years.

**Warning - **angst, discussion of serial killers

**Summary**\- Malcolm feels guilty for needing to visit his father but he can't quite stop himself.

**XXX**

Malcolm wiped his sweating palms on his cargo pants as a guard deposited him at the door to his father's cell. Mr. David opened the door, stepping back to let him in. His dark eyes twinkled and a smile played around the corners of his mouth. It had the opposite effect of setting Malcolm at ease. He feared his compatriots back in Boston were right. He'd been so buttoned down even the small changes he'd made stood out like a lighthouse beacon in the fog.

"Hello, Mr. David," he said, trying to play off the fact he'd noticed David's amusement.

"Nice to see you again, Malcolm. I know you're well familiar with the rules. Nothing's changed," David said, escorting him in.

Malcolm hadn't imagined much had changed. How could it? Unless his father had been fitted for a Hannibal Lectoresque face mask what could have changed? As far as he knew his father hadn't ever been a biter or – thank god for small favors – a cannibal.

His father's eyes sparked seeing him. A huge grin plastered itself across Martin Whitly's face. Malcolm was never sure if his father was truly glad to see him or simply happy to have his favorite toy to play with. He didn't need his father's mind games. Malcolm's brain played enough of its own. For a brief second, he was a little boy again, staring up at his father and being somehow so afraid, which was strange. He had never been afraid of his father back then. "Malcolm, my boy! It's wonderful to see you."

How did his father always sound so bright and cheerful? Was it forced? Was it part of the act to seem insane? Malcolm was never sure that his father was mad but it seemed easier for those involved in the case, in deciding his father's fate to think a man of intelligence and privilege _had_ to be fundamentally insane to throw it all away in order to kill at will. The alternative was some people were just born evil and Malcolm couldn't quite make that leap. How could anyone be born broken? It made more sense to him that somewhere along the way someone twisted and shattered the broken people. Maybe he needed to believe that because he was broken beyond repair and needed reasons for it. Worse, it was because deep inside, he was horrified at himself for being relieved his father was here in Claremont instead of being on death row in Sing Sing.

While he was summoning up the nerve to say hello and launch into the things he wanted to talk about today – he always needed a script in his head or else his father would run over him like a herd of bison, dragging Malcolm along behind him – his father's sharp gaze swept over him, taking his measure. His father's smile picked up a certain salacious wickedness.

"Who is she, son?"

Malcolm blinked, the question taking him by surprise in spite of himself. He should have known his perceptive father would have figured it out quickly. "She? There's no she."

His father rolled his eyes at the blatant lie. "Artfully tousled hair, strange T-shirt and what are the Dropkick Murphys, son ? You changed everything about your sense of style. So, who is she?"

"Just trying to fit in better in classes. Even at Harvard not everyone dresses in fussy buttoned downs," he replied. That was true. His straight-combed helmet of hair and his sartorial air had marked him as something of a geek even among Harvard's student body. He was trying out something new but it had been a mistake to wear it here. He was not about to share the girl in question with his father. Keeping Roisin, his rose, secret was a hill he was prepared to die on. Not that he knew what his father might be able to do about her from his cell but there was no sense in pushing his luck. The girl in the box flashed across his mind's eye and Malcolm shuddered.

The skin around his father's eyes tightened and he thinned his lips but gestured to the folding chair outside the bars of his cell. "So how is Harvard going? Are you learning anything fascinating? Are you making your mother proud?"

Was he letting Malcolm lie about Roisin? Were these loaded questions? Because she sure as hell had taught Malcolm fascinating things, none of which he planned to ever tell any member of his family, including Gil. He hadn't expected his masochism to take him along the paths _she_ had led him on but he had no complaints. Malcolm sat, deciding his father was distracted from the woman in his life at least momentary. That was good because he was in no mood to have his father dissect his untraditional relationship or explain that he'd been so damaged that he couldn't sleep next to her, not even after they'd had sex. To do so would expose a weakness to his father and Malcolm wasn't prepared for that.

"Mother is suitably proud," he replied. That was true. He'd scored perfectly at mid-term, thankful that yoga counted toward his P.E. credits, along with martial arts and squash. Team sport activities weren't his forte. Yoga was something he'd done since he was twelve when Jackie Arroyo suggested it as a way for him to calm down. She was an avid practitioner. Her trying to get Gil to do yoga had been pretty hysterical to pubescent Malcolm's mind. Gil just wasn't that limber. Malcolm turned out to be pretty flexible. "I'm enjoying my creative writing class. I took it for fun."

"Is that where you met her?" There was that charming smile, the one that probably disarmed his victims and allowed him to get close.

"Her who?"

Malcolm met his father's gaze unwavering. The following silence so profound in the room all he was aware of was David shifting about, probably bored out of his mind with his monotonous duty or was he grateful for the monotony because the alternative would be dangerous?

His father broke the stalemate by asking, "What are you writing about?"

"Mostly little short stories," he said evasively. "Some poems but that is not my favorite thing. I'm taking several psychology courses."

"No more biology?" His father couldn't hide the disappointment. Of course, he expected Malcolm to follow in his footsteps to be a surgeon but his interest in forensic psychology seemed almost an acceptable substitute.

Malcolm shook his head. "No, well one, the neurobiology of emotion and psychiatric illness. Now _that_ is fascinating! The limbic system and the actions of dopamine are simply intriguing."

"And the amygdala," his father prompted.

"Even more so. I…." Malcolm trailed off, realizing his father had guided him onto the pathway where the roots of fear were found. That, of course, captured the Surgeon's interests. He scowled, pushing his own fear of the things he had seen in his father's hobby room from his mind. "Anyhow, I enjoy that class a lot along with my other two psych classes, abnormal psychology and self-destructive behaviors. It's a very exciting semester, busy but exciting."

His father's eyes narrowed slightly and Malcolm braced himself for the same question he'd gotten from both his mother and Gil in one form or another, harsher from Mother, more gently couched from Gil. 'Are you trying to figure yourself out with these classes?' He could see the question lurking on his father's face. However, what he asked instead was, "Do you have time for anything fun?"

Malcolm read that as another way to get him to talk about the girl who got him wearing punk Celtic t-shirts. "I did go to Salem. That was fun."

"Oh?"

"You know, the history, got to see the House of Seven Gables while I was in the area, and toured the old burying grounds. What was really fun was the ghost tours," he added that just to see what his father would say.

Martin pulled a long face. "Really? You wasted time with ghosts."

He shrugged. "It was a fun way to spend the night. They work in some history and who doesn't like a good ghost story?"

"I don't remember you liking ghost stories."

"I'm not a child anymore."

His father made a wry face. "I suppose if you had fun that's what counts. Did you take her with you?"

Damn, he wasn't going to let it go but there was an honest answer that wouldn't cause problems. "No," Malcolm replied, not mentioning that he'd met her on the tour. "I went with a friend from class and her girlfriend."

"With your newly gained background – considering your choice in classes – what do you think those little girls felt like when their actions led to so many people being imprisoned and hanged, if they didn't die in prison first?" His father smiled as if he appreciated the horrors of Salem so long ago.

Malcolm wrinkled his nose, mulling over the question. "It's hard to say. It was such a different time with values radically differing from today's. They wouldn't have recorded things in terms of modern psychology. If those girls were sociopaths, which would be easy to think on the surface, then they wouldn't have cared, would have enjoyed all the attention and chaos. If they weren't sociopaths, you'd expect them to be horrified. We see the opposite recorded in history. Of course, they were kids and the judgement centers of their brains hadn't fully developed. They wouldn't have thought rationally about it. They did it to protect themselves from trouble and the first woman accused was a slave, truly not really human to them. Tituba's skin color alone was reason enough for them to accuse her and not feel all that bad about it. But as the accusations spread the girls had to realize they had _power_, more than they could have dreamed of. That had to excite them. Before anyone knew it, they had a sanctioned spree killing on their hands, one that showed a fair amount of misogynism," Malcolm paused for breath, realizing he'd been lost in his analysis. He had rambled at ever increasing speeds, excited by his own thoughts.

His father clapped his hands. "Excellent, my boy. Your insight remains as crystalline as always. Let's see how you do with this. Let's talk killing duos."

"Okay." Malcolm blinked, a little surprised at that choice. Why duos? Why now? _Because that's what he's always wanted it, isn't it? We're the same. He wanted you to be his partner_. Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, picturing his hands coated in blood. For a moment, it was so real he could smell the blood. When he opened his eyes, his father stared at him, a question on the tip of his tongue. Malcolm glanced away.

Whatever his father had been about to say, he didn't give it voice. Maybe he did care to spare his son's feelings or maybe he was cataloging it for later use. "Not married couples as the dynamics there are too easy, though Charlene and Gerald Gallego are worth your attention when you have the time. They were dedicated to turning their victims into sexual slaves, which is a bit crass. I think I'll skip Henry Lucas and Otis Toole as well. They're too well know, too much analysis has already been done. Still you have to admire them."

"Do I?" Malcolm rolled his eyes and his father grimaced. "They're probably lying about their kill count anyhow. Too many cops wanted to clear their decks by putting the blame on those two. Once they knew they were caught, it was better to claim as many kills as possible, make their reputation that much more horrible. You can only get sentenced to death so many times."

"True. Claiming kills that aren't your own is vulgar and why make it easier on the police? It's better to keep your own counsel."

"Is it though?" Malcolm huffed.

"Don't be difficult, Malcolm." His father wagged a finger at him. 

He clenched his jaw. "I'm not."

His father shot him a warning glare. "And you are being far too dismissive. Lucas and Toole did lead cops to nearly two hundred and fifty bodies."

"They were monsters," Malcolm agreed, knowing they claimed nearly three times that number of kills.

"Monsters aren't real," his father scolded but Malcolm felt far less sure of that now than he had when his father told him that when he was ten. "Anyhow, what do you know of Delfina and Maria Gonzales?"

Malcolm shook his head. "Never heard of them."

His father shrugged. "When it comes to killing duos, most are either married or related, which I suppose from the view point of their dynamics would be less interesting to you."

"In a way, you're right. Though every relationship has something of interest in it," Malcolm said quickly, and then frowned when he saw that smarmy spark in his father's eyes. He knew he'd been played again. Their own relationship was one they both needed, and Malcolm loathed that he needed to be here. He understood why his father needed him. A narcissist required an audience and Malcolm was more than that. He was the son, the _heir_, all of his father's sick hopes made flesh. The bigger question was what did he get out of seeing his father? He was nineteen now. Nearly a decade had passed since his father had been incarcerated, thanks to him. Was he here for the memory of how he had idolized Martin Whitly growing up? For all those fun evenings studying with his father, basking in his praise? Wasn't he getting that from him now? Tutorials and metaphorical head pats when he showed off his insights and brilliances when it came to forensic psychology had become their norm. His stomach flipped. and Malcolm fought not to empty his stomach on his shoes.

"Malcolm, what's wrong? You look green." His father leaned on the bars to his cell and David got to his feet. His father backed up.

"Just thinking," Malcolm muttered. Thinking that Gil Arroyo was perpetually disappointed that Malcolm came here. That his mother hated it. "Tell me about the Gonzaleses."

"They were sisters who ran Rancho El Ángel, a brothel. They lured in women with help wanted ads for maids and then force fed them heroin and cocaine."

"And forced them into prostitution?" Malcolm asked.

As proud as if Malcolm had been named valedictorian –again- his father nodded. "They also killed wealthy customers who flashed wads of money."

Malcolm sniffed. "You're right. The dynamics there are less interesting. It's monetarily motivated but I guess money is one of the number one reasons for murder."

His father spread his hands and returned to his own seat. He hadn't killed for money or for sex. As much as Malcolm hated to say it, his father's motives for murder were far more fascinating. "I'm sure that's true. They did, however, kill over ninety people that the authorities knew of."

Malcolm blinked. "That is a lot. What an excessive amount of greed they must have had and so little regard for life."

"You'll find this duo more interesting. Gwendolyn Graham and Catherine May Wood, two nurses who met at a Michigan nursing home."

"Angels of mercy?" Malcolm had read about various medical personnel who killed, in theory, to put someone out of their misery, which often was not the case.

"No. In some ways they're not much different than heterosexual couples who murder. They were lovers and once Graham left Wood for someone else, Wood confessed. Naturally she put all the blame on Graham, claiming to be a pawn. That isn't the interesting part."

"You do see it in a lot of couples, blaming the other for making them do it," Malcolm said, remembering things he had read. Of course, he hadn't had to read about it really. The police had blamed his mother, suggesting she had helped her husband. They had blamed _him_. Did his father know that? Was that why he brought up killing duos now?

"True. Of course, getting caught helps motivate one to minimize their involvement. You should know that."

His father's smile chilled him, making Malcolm remember his nightmares: The girl in the box. What was his father suggesting? As he shivered, his father launched back into the story. "They planned their kills to try to use their victims' names to spell out 'murder' but it was proving difficult so they found other ways of selecting targets."

Malcolm merely nodded, losing all interest in what his father was saying. Had he been hinting that Malcolm knew more than he told the cops? But he didn't, did he? Those fragments of dead women, of knives and blood that haunted his dreams where just that: dreams. Doctor Le Deux had assured him of that for years. Gil and Mother too. The girl in the box wasn't his doing. He _had_ called the cops. He just hadn't been fast enough. They insisted she was a dream. Malcolm knew better. Their disbelief resonated as a painful ache inside him. Roisin believed him.

"Malcolm, you're fading."

He glanced up at his father. Was that honest concern or just a mask Martin Whitly could pull on at will? Malcolm could make himself insane with these musings. "Lost in thought. I need to go soon."

"Really? Already?" Disappointment warped his father's expression and sagged his shoulders under the weight of it.

Malcolm nodded. "I have another appointment this afternoon." That was true. Gil and Jackie were taking him out as they often did after a day with his father. He was happy to go to their home, curl up on the couch with Jackie's cats, some tea and all her favorite movies.

"If you must go so soon, let me give you some homework for next time. Look up Wolfgang Abel and Marco Furlan."

Malcolm cocked his head. He didn't know those names. "Wolfgang Abel and Marco Furlan?"

"Yes. While they did wrap themselves up in the tawdriness of Nazism, I think you'll find their dynamics far more interesting that a couple of lovers or siblings. They met in school and clicked. They wanted to clean up their community to their standards, meaning prostitutes and drug addicts, among others were deemed worthy of dying. In the end they killed or wounded nearly seventy people. Now isn't that an interesting mission? Removing prostitutes and addicts for the greater good."

In spite of himself, Malcolm nodded. "I'll look them up." Why did he agree? Why did he always agree? Why did his father's approval still matter so much to him? He had no good answer that didn't include the thoughts of 'you're pathetic' or 'you're broken.'

"You'll enjoy prizing out their secrets. Tell me all about it next time." His father's face all but shone as he grinned.

"I will." At least maybe that would keep his father out of love life. Malcolm hated that there would be a next time but he knew he couldn't stop himself even though he should. "I need to go. Mother hates when I'm late." He probably shouldn't use his mother as a decoy but Malcolm knew his father understood her well. Besides, Malcolm would never be in the right head space to explain how close he was to the man who arrested Martin Whitly. Nothing good would come of handing his father that knowledge.

His father chuckled. "I haven't forgotten her temper, son. You'd better go. I'd hate to see you on the bad end of Jessie's ire."

Malcolm stood. "I wouldn't want that."

"One last question, Malcolm." His father stood and gripped the bars of his cell briefly, his gaze burrowing into Malcolm's skull. He gestured to the shamrock on Malcolm's shirt with another quick smile. "What does your mother think of her?"

"Her who, sir?"

Malcolm snorted. "Stubborn to the end. You always have been. Goodbye, my boy."

"Goodbye, sir."

Mr. David let him out and another employee walked Malcolm out. He spared a look back at his father who beamed as if he knew he had come out ahead in this meeting of the minds. Of course, he always did. Maybe he wouldn't look up Wolfgang Abel and Marco Furlan. Who were they to decide who was worthy of living and who wasn't? But of course, that very question, the nature of their crimes made them fascinating. He'd probably end up writing a paper about them for some psych class or another. Damn his father for this but maybe he'd be better for the exercise. He wanted to be a profiler and why not examine as many killers as he could?

As he walked outside to where Jackie Arroyo waited in her car, reading, Malcolm paused, canting his face up to the sun. He stroked his chest, thinking about the girl who got him to not only wear a Dropkick Murphys t-shirt but to go hear them in concert. No, he hadn't told Mother about her yet. He wasn't sure she'd understand, not with the way she nudged him to other socialites his age. Jackie and Gil liked her. For now, that's all that mattered. Neither parent would approve but that was okay too. His found family did.

Malcolm strolled slowly to the parking lot, fixing a smile on his face for Jackie. She'd know it didn't reach his eyes but she wouldn't say anything. Instead, she was likely to stop by his favorite restaurant, buy him some of the few things that didn't make him sick to eat and just let him tell her about it in his own time or let him keep his silence. As always a visit with his father left him off-kilter but with a lot to think about. It shouldn't make him happy but somehow it did. For now, he needed this but he could look forward to the day when he was strong enough to walk away and never look back.


End file.
